


on his mouth like liquor

by Nanimok



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25130596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: prompt: For whatever reason, Alex and Yassen end up on the same mission where it's in their best interests to fake a relationship. This could be any form of relationship: romantic, master/slave, D/s, teacher/student... I'd love it if they were from rival organisations and grudgingly forced to work together, but SCORPIA!Alex AU is always good as well!
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 6
Kudos: 142





	on his mouth like liquor

It’s really quite unfair, Alex thinks, how he’s never the one wearing a pressed suit and dress shoes to a mission. It’s always grunt work and uniforms and exponentially more bullets for him. Why can’t he have a go at being the villain for once? He can make a convincing one! All he’d have to do is channel Julius and grow a wicked moustache that he could stroke whenever he’s pleased with himself. Throw in a maniacal laugh here and there, interspersed with a few sips of his mimosas—

“You have a very strange view of the world,” Yassen says, slightly pursing his lips. For someone with the minutiae control of his body, that practically constitutes as a smile. 

Alex scowls, because of course Yassen wouldn’t understand. The room temperature is freezing. Yassen has a blouse, a vest, and a trouser. Alex only has a collar, ridiculously tight shorts, and chains as cold as the arctic draped over his chest. That’s as far as he allows his mind to wallow, though. If Alex focuses too much on the warmth of Yassen’s hand on his thigh, or the blazing heat which his ass is currently seated on, then he’s going pop a boner, and Alex figures that Yassen will like that a little too much. Alex can’t lose any more ground of his dignity than he already has. He’s already seated on Yassen’s lap as it is. On top that, Alex can feel the warm, amused rumble of Yassen’s chest every time he talks, and his after-shave curls around him like a cosy piece of blanket.

It’s very much unfair, Alex decides. Even his aftershave smells nice and expensive.

Thankfully, it’s just him and Yassen in the parlour, even if the setting is more intimate than what Alex would like. The lighting is dim compared to the hallways they passed. There’s a soft, orange glow of a fireplace, which accentuates the shadows of Yassen’s cheeks and highlights the angles of his face. It makes Yassen look sharper—more lethal. But Alex will choose the room with the proverbial tiger he knows over the one he doesn’t. Watching the negotiations and flushed press of bodies outside were… unnerving to say the least.

With one hand, Yassen carves small circles into Alex’s thigh with his thumb, regarding him with—what Alex is sure is—amusement. It’s all very distracting; both his look and his thumb. He is almost beholden to the movement, tracing the sensation back and forth in his mind.

“I don’t have a strange view of the world.” Alex shakes his head. “You have no grounds to say that.”

“Why not?”

“You worked with _Greif_ ,” he says indignantly.

“And?”

“He’s a literal caricature of a MI6 villain.”

Yassen tips his head, conceding his point. Then, he thinks on it. “Mimosas are too sweet for my liking,” Yassen says after a while.

“Is that really the part which bothers you the most?”

“You were grumbling about the role you were given,” Yassen points out. “I am simply explaining the reasoning behind it; you lack the gravitas and the refined palette of a so-called ‘villain.’ It’s all the coke you drowned your taste buds in.”

“Excuse you,” Alex says.

“I much prefer bourbon,” Yassen says, moving the hand on Alex’s thigh up to his hips. It stubbornly stays, no matter how hard Alex bats at it. “Isn’t it fortunate, then, that our host is quite generous with his collection.”

“That’s nice.”

“A boy should strive to please his master.”

“A ‘boy’ doesn’t need to act when one else is here.”

“Alex,” Yassen warns.

Yassen stares at him, pinning him down like an insect with an intensity only the sun could rival. Alex hates how it makes a small part of him want to curl up and hide. But Alex meets his gaze, regardless of the way Yassen’s hand is stroking down his back. They are so close that his body feels hypersensitive—his skin feels too tight, his body too cold and Yassen is too warm.

 _Proximity is just an intimidation tactic,_ Alex recites in his mind. _His touch only affects you if you let it, Alex._

Has an MI6 agent ever died from popping a boner? He kind of hopes someone has—even though it’s a horrible thing to say. He doesn’t want to be the first.

“ _You_ were the one who came to me for help,” Yassen says, his voice dangerously low. “I want a drink. I think you should get it for me.” 

There’s something else there, Alex notes. There’s a heat in his eyes which could burn him alive, if Alex isn’t careful. Getting Yassen a drink seems like admitting defeat—even if Alex can’t code into words particularly what the defeat is for—but Alex has learnt to pick and choose his battles. There’s a simple pleasure in watching someone work, and it’s a pleasure Yassen indulges in as Alex swallows his courage, strides to the liquor cabinet, and picks the sweetest looking bourbon he can find.

Yassen’s eyes were definitely not on his increasingly red shoulders when he turned around. It was definitely much, much lower. Alex blatantly ignores the appreciation in his eyes as he strides over and holds the drink out. “Here.”

Yassen blinks up at him.

“I don’t know why you’re acting like a martyr,” Alex mutters, ducking his head. “It’s not like you’re _not_ getting a pardon out of this”

Yassen stares at him, _again—_ does he do much of anything else?—and slowly opens his legs. He beckons Alex to stand between them. “No,” Yassen says. “Not a pardon. A promise of a pardon.”

Surprise momentarily flutters in him. Then annoyance that MI6 has, once again, failed to keep Alex in the loop in the intricacies of his mission.

They know MI6 isn’t going to squander someone of Yassen’s calibre or let someone with Yassen’s history walk free. Chances are, Yassen’s probably never getting that pardon. If it’s not jail, then it’ll be a lifetime’s servitude to the state, but Yassen will probably disappear before MI6 could rope him into their services. Hell, Alex is surprised he even took the job in the first place. Seems like a lot of work for someone who’s retired.

He still hasn’t taken his drink. Yassen is much more interested in running his hands up the sides of Alex’s thighs slowly. Like he’s savouring the softness, the grip, and the friction of their skins meeting—Alex’s thigh to his palm. Then, Yassen’s hands travel until they meet the bottom of his pants. He hooks his index fingers under the seams, and pulls Alex closer.

Heat pools low on his belly. A lump has grown in his throat.

Yassen’s face is level with his groin. Alex quickly peels his mind away from the thought.

“Only a promise of pardon?” Alex says, his voice cracking. “Seems like a shitty deal to me.”

Yassen plays with the seam of his shorts. The back of his fingers seems to follow everywhere his index finger goes, fascinated by the pliancy of his skin. They curl and uncurl several times—languorous in their playing. Alex shaved and moisturised his thighs for this mission. Yassen is clearly enjoying the fruits of his labour.

“No,” Yassen says. “Not a shitty deal.” He unhooks his fingers and leans back into the chair. “I’m thirsty. I think you should feed me my drink.”

His ever-racing heart beat doubles under Yassen’s expectant stare. “How am I supposed to do that?”

Yassen doesn’t reply to him, only tilting his head in challenge.

He has a way of making every one of Alex’s actions seem magnified. It makes the back of his neck prickle. It makes him want to run.

Lifting one foot, he draws Alex closer by the back of his calf. His shoe is achingly cold on his bare skin. When Alex is close, Yassen grabs hold of the chains hanging off his body—Alex stifles the stab of heat at the sight—and tugs him down. Gingerly, Alex straddles his lap, Yassen’s drink in hand.

“I’m pretty sure this wasn’t part of the job,” Alex says.

Yassen runs his hands up his ribs. “Hmm.” Circles around his nipples.

“Are contractors supposed to be this handsy?”

“Less talking,” Yassen says. “More drinking.”

For a second, his nail catches onto a nipple, causing Alex to shut his eyes.

Alex breathes in slowly, before saying, “Okay, then.” He pushes the glass at Yassen’s tie. “Here you go.”

Yassen doesn’t stop his roaming hands. “Can’t.”

“What?”

“Can’t hold the glass,” Yassen says. He palms Alex’s ass with his hands.

 _Is he serious?_ Alex thinks, giving Yassen an exasperated look,

Yassen’s expression doesn’t stutter. He wiggles his fingers.

Alex is annoyed, disgusted, and ridiculously turned on.

God, he hates his job.

This isn’t what MI6 agreed to. This isn’t part of getting Alex close to the mark. Yet, Alex braces himself, ignoring the insistent rhythm of Yassen palming his ass, swirls the drink in glass, and takes a big mouthful. Then, with bourbon burning his mouth, Alex pulls Yassen in by the tie while grinding their hard-ons together.

It’s messier than expected—sloppy and wet. Some alcohol escapes as Alex is overwhelmed from the surge of pleasure. Yassen, however, doesn’t seem to have any of the same qualms. He presses their chests together, until there’s no space between their bellies. He drinks everything in, more so Alex than his bourbon, licking into his mouth, chasing the aftertaste long after the alcohol is gone and swallowing any chance of Alex gaining his breath.

After a while, Yassen pulls apart. “Sweet,” Yassen murmurs, before sucking on Alex’s bottom lip. “Too sweet.”

Alex is breathing hard. His lips are swollen and his body tingles. “I like it.”

“I know you do.” This time, Yassen actually gives a quiet chuckle. “Brat.”

Getting a chuckle out of Yassen—steel-corded, stone-cold Yassen—feels like a victory he shouldn’t be proud of getting. But then, he shouldn’t have done many things. He shouldn’t have been in Yassen’s lap in the first place. He shouldn’t be grinding their dicks together, and feeling like he might explode if Yassen stops touching him. He shouldn’t have thought that he was safe from falling into Yassen’s orbit.

Alex doesn’t wait for Yassen’s order. He just takes another sip of the drink.

At some point, Alex lost track of time and Yassen’s hands, lost in the sound and smell of him and Yassen warming up the room. Peripherally, he notes a number of things happening. They finish their drink. The glass ends up on the table. The band of his shorts falls very low. Yassen digs his fingers onto the bare swell of his ass. The skin on skin contact is electrifying, zinging his nerves into life. His fingers—thick, firm and insistent—presses dangerously close to his hole. All the while Yassen never stops demanding with his mouth, his kisses overwhelming him. He never stops reeling Alex in and taking _more,_ and _more,_ and _more_ —

“Gregorovich.”

Yassen breaks their kiss, leaving Alex cold and dizzy. He quickly pulls the band of Alex’s shorts back up. “Franco,” he greets, voice admirably even and his face falling flat.

Franco could be considered an attractive man if he didn’t have the stench of arrogance, old-money, and exploitation following at his back. It culminates into a sneer which is probably plastered onto his face, Alex is sure. Unfortunately, Franco is also the person MI6 needs Alex to get close to.

“It’s not like you to try the merchandise,” Franco says amusedly, eyes running down Alex’s body.

His attention makes Alex want to squirm, but nothing like the low, simmering pulse of _want_ like before.

“Is this the new boy for Sammy?” Franco says. “Seems a little skittish.”

“Alex,” Yassen introduces, patting his hip. “He is new. Introduce yourself.”

That’s his cue. Alex swallows the volatile mixture of frustration and desire down. He stands, ignoring the tent in his pants, and kneels with spread-kneels in front of Franco. Putting his hands behind his head, he says, “Sir.”

Alex ignores the sting of humiliation —the small swell of shame and anger—and looks forward. He only needs to find when Franco and Sammy are keeping the other boys. Then Franco and Sammy will rot in jail, and Alex will never have to see them again. He can do this.

“Very good,” Franco says, eyes half-lidded. He grabs Alex’s chin, tipping Alex’s head from side to side. “This one’s very pretty.” Thumbing Alex’s bottom lips, Franco digs his nail in and pulls down. “Open your mouth.”

The moment Alex opens his jaw, Franco shoves two stubby fingers in, pushing down the back of his tongue. At the same time, Franco presses the toe of his shoe against Alex’s crotch. Pleasure and discomfort wars in his body. Alex gags, making a clear effort not to bite down even as his eyes tear up.

“Already so well behaved too,” Franco says, his voice much too low for Alex’s liking. “Good boy.”

He removes his fingers and relief immediately slams into him.

Franco’s finger has moved onto to follow the chains on Alex’s body. “He will do well in the program. I think Sammy will take to him particularly fast.”

Alex keeps his eyes forward, pushing down the disgust threatening to rise inside him as Franco tweaks and pinches his nipple.

“Yes,” Yassen says, after a while. “He will.”

“The money should be transferred by midnight,” Franco tells him. “Leave us.”

Yassen stands, but he doesn’t leave straight away. “Sammy wanted him unharmed.”

“And he will be,” Franco says, rolling his eyes. “I’m just going to have a little fun with him.”

Yassen doesn’t move.

Franco raises an eyebrow at Yassen. “Well?”

For a moment, Alex thinks that Yassen won’t leave, and his heart races at the thought. But then, Alex can hear his footsteps aiming towards the door. He breathes in. He mentally collects the smallest hints of disappointment and chucks it in the rubbish. He breathes out.

 _Stupid,_ Alex scolds himself. _That’s the plan, anyway._

Yassen’s hand lands on the door knob. Franco’s hand undoes his zipper. 

Alex closes his eyes.

A thud—gagging noises—the sounds of a struggle—

Alex snaps his eyes open. He jumps to his feet and holds his fists out—

Yassen tightens his chokehold, his eyes flickering to Alex for a second, registering his presence, before looking back down. Franco scrabbles at Yassen’s arm, digging his nails into Yassen’s. His eyes plead Alex for help.

Taking Franco out now would compromise their whole mission. Yassen’s part was done, and he was supposed to leave. But he didn’t go, and now, Alex is rooted to the ground.

Franco fights begin to weaken. Alex watches, almost dispassionately, as his limbs seem to grow heavy, and his flails dampen into stillness. Yassen lowers him onto the ground.

Alex licks his lips. “That wasn’t part of the plan,” he says.

Yassen doesn’t say anything as he unclips Franco’s handgun, and empties Franco’s pockets into his own. There is no way Yassen would have misheard him, so Alex waits for Yassen’s reply. Eventually, once Yassen has dragged Franco’s body into the nearest closet, he shoulders off his blazer and holds it out. “Are you coming?” he asks.

Alex looks at him, looks at his unblinking, steely eyes daring Alex to make a comment, before snatching the blazer. “Yes, I’m coming,” he says, shrugging the blazer on. “Yassen?”

Yassen raises one eyebrow in query.

Alex is taller than him, but Yassen still looms over. It’s the magnetism, he tells himself, as he squares his shoulders and straightens to full height. He can feel his resolve building. But then, the same resolve wanes when Yassen comes closer, and Alex just kinds of—stands there.

“Yes?” Yassen prompts him, a touch of impatience leaking from his voice.

Alex leans down. He hesitantly presses their lips together. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

The modesty seems out of place considering where their hands were before, but Yassen’s eyes flutter close for a second. He doesn’t move away when Alex is finished. Instead, he searches Alex’s face while his breath flutters over his lips. He brings one thumb up to gently brush Alex’s bottom lip. Alex takes his thumb into his mouth.

When Alex swipes the tip of his finger with his tongue, a corner of Yassen’s lips lifts into a smile.


End file.
